


Just A Breath of Wind

by 1949



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Gen, Pre-Last Battle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2014-11-22
Packaged: 2018-02-16 09:11:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2264010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1949/pseuds/1949
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We were given no real explanation for why the Friends of Narnia had to die. Simply to be united to Aslan? Why then? Examines the impact that the Friends of Narnia had here, what they could have become had they continued living, and the impact that their deaths had on others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. May 2, 1949

**88888**

**May 2, 1949**

**Parliamentary Office of Sir John Crowder (MP for Finchley), Westminster, England**

**88888**

The young man removed his fedora and smoothed his hair before lifting the brass knocker. It was not insecurity, but simple habit and respect for his master, as none had the privilege of entering the grand office unannounced. And Sir John Crowder would not tolerate his aide arriving in anything other than immaculate attire; never mind that the said aide once had half a country watching what he wore.

“Ah, Mr. Pevensie!” called a ponderous voice from inside. “Come right on in.”

The young man entered to see Sir Crowder seated, as usual, in his magnificent leather chair. “I recognised your knock,” the older man said, setting down his papers and leaning back. “You might as well strike the door with a gauntlet. Well, I believe you arrived early, as usual. Good for you.”

“I regret, sir, that I am a minute late. My apologies.”

Sir Crowder reached into his vest and pulled out his watch. His jaw moved ever so slightly as he carefully studied the clock-face. Peter was right, as always. Then he looked up and studied the young man. He did not seem arrogant at having had a better sense of time than his master, and he was definitely not sheepish either. Great Scott, he didn’t even blink at the morning sunlight shining into his face…

“Ah, you have one of those confounded wrist-watches,” Sir Crowder noticed critically. “You’ll have to get a proper timepiece.”

Peter smiled. This conversation was repeated every Monday. “I would, sir,” he said, “but I believe providing for my family has been more important, especially since my father received his injury.”

“You’re a good chap, Mr. Pevensie. This evening, I’ll buy you one.”

“Thank you for your generosity, but that will not be necessary.” This was not a request, but a statement. It stood as straight and immovable as the clock tower at the corner of this imposing complex of buildings, and Sir Crowder knew this quite well.

“Well, right to work, shall we?” he asked, sighing. But this was quite unneeded, as his aide was already working his way through the voluminous correspondence piled on his desk. Neat stacks began appearing, while a steady stream of rubbish made its way to the nearby bin. Being a parliamentary aide could be a dreary occupation...

“Mr. Strachey will be in Westminster the day after tomorrow for questioning,” Sir Crowder added, pushing his chair back and walking to the window. The morning bustle in the street below was just beginning to ebb.

“The party will want to question him about the Tanganyika groundnut scheme,” noted Peter, looking up.

“Exactly,” declared the older man, with something approaching enthusiasm. “Party leadership thinks this scandal may bring down the present government. Bah! What an idea that was! Imagine, planting peanuts in Africa to supply oil!”

“Will you be questioning the honorable Food Minister on the matter?”

“I should,” Sir Crowder growled, turning and going back to his chair, as he did when weightier matters called. “But I have nothing new to offer.”

“Then it would be better to say nothing at all about the matter, if I may suggest so. This may be of more present interest,” Peter advised, holding up a sheaf of letters. “Many of our constituents have been complaining about not being able to purchase any surplus eggs in the shops, while the restaurants always seem to have a supply.”

“Rationing, of course,” grumbled Sir Crowder, “and typical inefficiency on the part of the Ministry of Food. Mr. Strachey…”

“Our people have had insufficient egg rations for nine years now,” Peter pointed out. “They’re becoming restless; people will bear suffering gladly, but if they feel there’s been unfairness… injustice, whether real or imagined, will anger any good man, even if it’s only eggs. And we cannot afford that; there’s been enough trouble with strikes recently. Not to mention the finer points of morality.”

Sir Crowder pondered this for a moment. “An excellent point, Mr. Pevensie. I shall be sure to address the matter.” And indeed he did, two days later.

There was a genial silence as one man sorted though notes from the last week's sessions and the other sat and thought. Sir Crowder finally broke the silence. "What would you say if I asked you... theoretically... to take my place in the Commons?”

There was no hesitation on the part of the young man. “I would point out that the rules of the House would not permit it, but if I was compelled to do so I believe I could handle it.”

Sir Crowder almost smiled. “I may have told you this before, Mr. Pevensie, but I believe you have every qualification to be seated in that hall. And you wouldn’t be an old fogey like me, sliding along on the benches of power for a decade or two and then returning to Cornwall for a maybe not-so-well deserved retirement.”

“I have no intention of hastening that retirement,” said Peter with the utmost tact.

“I’m not so ready for it either,” Sir Crowder admitted. The familiar spires and courtyards he could see out the window were quite dear to him, indeed. “You should not and will not be limited by that, though. You are the type of person who will be a mover and shaker, who will be the leader that I never have been."

There was another genial silence, then Sir Crowder looked up again. “I assume that you’re aware of the usual process of becoming a Member of Parliament?”

A slightly acidic smile came to Peter’s face. “Yes, I’ll be sent to stand for a hopeless seat and then, as a reward, run in a safer constituency in the next elections.”

Sir Crowder nodded and, somewhat reluctantly, shifted his weight forwards onto the great oaken desk. “Well, I see no sense in wasting talent like yours,” he said, somewhat brusquely but fondly. “Enfield Southgate will be an open seat in the next elections. And I happen to know most of the party leaders in that borough.”

If Peter was shocked, he did not show it. “I would be honored, sir,” he said with conviction. “I’m sure that your trust will not be wasted.”

 “Very well, then, I assume you are accepting the offer.” Sir Crowder pulled out his pocketwatch and traced the engraving on it, as was his custom when he had to deal with something unusual. It was not arrogance, but Peter had poise far beyond what was natural for his years. But then again, that was why he was willing to risk his reputation in recommending him. “I am meeting with several of them this Saturday,” he continued. “You’re coming with me, of course. And do wear a dinner jacket."

Peter’s face fell, though not at the mention of the attire. “I’m honored, but I must withdraw, sir. Important…er, family matters have come up and I shall be occupied over the weekend. I do apologize.”

The older man looked sharply at his aide, trying to see if he was hesitating, if he was trying to back out. But if anything, he was standing straighter and with more conviction after saying these words. “Very well,” he sighed. “It can wait. But destiny and Britain will not wait on you, Mr. Pevensie.”

“Then I’m afraid Britain and destiny must learn to be patient.”

Sir John Crowder allowed himself a smile as he watched his young aide moving efficiently through his work once again. Peter would go far indeed, he thought. Never mind that the pupil would quickly surpass the master; the boy had poise and talent and brilliance far exceeding his years. And Sir Crowder was content that when the time came for retirement, he would be able watch his protégé climb the ropes of power. Perhaps he would even sit in this very chair. But no, he had the potential for far more. Perhaps one day 10 Downing Street would call…

Peter had not been at all fazed by the burden of responsibility that was about to be placed on his shoulders. He had been a king, after all. One with far more power than any member of Parliament or even the Prime Minister. And if higher heights called, as Sir Crowder seemed certain, then he would put his all into making this land one that Aslan would be proud of.

Big Ben tolled out the hour, and Peter stopped for a moment to listen to the beloved sound. He was beginning to enjoy working in these halls of power…

But another mission called, one from Aslan himself. And of course that came first. After all, no matter how high he rose in this world, he would always be Aslan’s faithful servant.

Peter Pevensie did not know that a Sir Beverly Baxter would ultimately serve as the MP for Enfield Southgate for fourteen years and die in office after an unremarkable career. And certainly he had no idea that Sir Crowder would represent Finchley for ten more years, and that his successor would be another rising politician named Margaret Thatcher.

 


	2. May 3, 1949

**88888**

**May 3, 1949**

**Pevensie Residence, Finchley, England**

**88888**

The arm was healing nicely; Lucy had been a fine nurse. Now he sat on the couch, convalescing quickly and desperately wanting to be out of the sling, to be free again. But he had no idea what lay ahead, once his arm was healed. His mind still seemed trapped in the jungle; no path opened before him.

The bell on the door rang sharply and Edmund remembered that the others were all gone. He set aside his book reluctantly and slipped on a dressing gown. The kettle of boiling water on the stove drew his attention, and he shut the stove off. What a pity, he thought; he had waited eighteen months for a cup of good English tea…

His heart sank as he opened the door and saw the officer, dressed in immaculately pressed khakis, with hat in hand. “Mr. Pevensie, formerly of the Second Battalion, Coldstream Guards?” the man asked crisply.

Edmund nodded. He did not recognise the insignia on the officer’s uniform, but perhaps things had changed since his battalion was deployed. So many other things seemed strange in England now...the music, the clothing, the people...

“It is an honor to meet you,” said the officer genially, offering his hand. “I’ve heard of your bravery during your tour in Malaya.” He paused and looked Edmund up and down. “Lieutenant Colonel Calvert, commanding officer, Special Air Service.”

Edmund was puzzled. “Colonel Sterling’s chaps?” he recollected. “I heard of your exploits in the desert during The War. I thought you had been disbanded? Well, please come in and have a cup of tea.”

Calvert nodded but gratefully sat down and watched Edmund brewing the tea, remarkably well for a man with one good arm. He took the offered cup before continuing. “Well, shall we cut to the chase? You are right; the SAS was mustered out of service. We've been reorganised, though, under my command. As you certainly saw during your service, our current tactics are not working in the jungles, against a guerilla enemy. My plan is to create a force of Britain’s finest…men who will be trained in jungle warfare, masters of survival, capable of operating in small teams…and of carrying the war to the enemy’s front lawn. In short, men like you…once that arm’s healed, of course.”

Edmund poured a little of the precious cream into his tea. Four years after The War, rationing still affected their lives. “I served my eighteen months of National Service, and was lucky to survive,” he said finally, watching the last bit of white dissolve. “I don’t think I’ll be going back.”

“Your conduct in action would seem to indicate more than a man fighting to survive,” noted Calvert, taking another sip of the tea. “You risked your life time and time again for others when you could have escaped. No, I don’t think you’re as selfish as you make yourself out to be.”

 “I’m not going back,” Edmund said firmly. “It’s not that I’m afraid of death or this broken arm…” Far greater battles and injuries flashed through Edmund’s mind, images of Beruna and charging centaurs and the glint of the sun off the shards of Jadis’ wand before it impaled him. He would have to try to explain the deep emotions he felt to this officer. “It’s one thing to grow up with stories of knights in shining armor, to talk of glorious charges and damsels in distress. But I saw a different type of war there, and it’s an ugly thing. “

Calvert could sympathise with the younger man. He had seen far more things than he cared for in his own experiences fighting the Japanese. But there was a deeper horror in Edmund’s eyes. “You seem to speak of lost heroism and idealism,” he said finally, not entirely certain of what to say. “But that medal …your survival for days in the jungle cut off from support, how you fought to the very end, your devotion to your men...”

The Distinguished Conduct Medal pinned to the sergeant’s uniform in his room upstairs weighed heavily on Edmund. “That medal seems like almost like a mockery to me,” he said, cupping his face in his hands. “It’s a reminder of all those that didn’t make it, while I did. The least I could do for my men was protect them.”

The Lieutenant Colonel was puzzled. With Sergeant Pevensie’s reputation, he had expected him to wear the uniform once again with immense pride when given the chance to serve in this elite unit. After all, his entry into the Coldstream Guards had hardly been proper, but by the time the mistake was discovered he had become far too valuable to ship off to a regular unit. This young man was different, but exactly the type of person the he needed. And having fought through miles of bureaucracy and opposition to reform his unit, Mike Calvert was not going to be stopped from recruiting the men he needed to make his dream a reality.

“And that’s why you are so valuable,” he said, setting his cup down on the table between the two men. “Mr. Pevensie, you saved the lives of every men in the squad that you could. The Lion of Tapah, I believe they called you. You would fit perfectly in the SAS. Now, I’ve gone through all the experiences you have, in Burma, and we can put an end to what those terrorists are doing…”

Edmund almost laughed at Calvert’s words. “But not in two worlds,” he felt like saying. The memory of Jadis had been nearly expunged from his mind, only to be reawakened by all the treachery he had encountered in Malaya and by the reign of terror that the rebels had unleashed on the regions under their control. He was tired of war; he was tired of being a hero in this dark world…

“You likely won’t earn many medals with us, Mr. Pevensie. It will be war in the shadows, where only your comrades and the people you protect will know of your deeds. But Britain needs men who are willing to make that sacrifice. _We_ need you.”

The word sacrifice meant many things to Edmund. He thought of the local policemen he had seen, captured and tortured by the guerillas. He thought of the frightened Malayan villagers they had gone to protect, and of seeing them dead mere days after leaving them. He thought of his old comrades hacking their way through the dense tropical jungle and fighting and dying in that foreign land. Hopelessness had filled him then at not being able to solve the problem, at being a little ant in the grand picture of things, and he knew this time would be no different. And so he thought of the enormity of this sacrifice Lieutenant Colonel Calvert was asking for.

Then he remembered another great sacrifice, one that had been made for him, the ultimate sacrifice of all. And it was a sacrifice that had been made twice over, in two worlds. Almost frighteningly, his path was becoming clear as daylight.

“Britain calls, and I shall answer,” he said firmly, taking Calvert's offered hand. “For God and country.”

Edmund Pevensie had decided to offer his life for a higher good. He did not know that Aslan had accepted the sacrifice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Malaya was Britain’s equivalent to Vietnam. However, spearheaded by units such as the SAS and using successful hearts-and-minds tactics, the British and the Malayan government were able to achieve victory by 1958.


	3. May 4, 1949

**88888**

**May 4, 1949**

**Finchley and Edgware, London Borough of Barnet, England**

**88888**

Lucy latched the gate with a slight pang of regret. In two weeks, she would go through this familiar ritual again. She would even tread this same path, walking the few short miles southwest from Finchley to Edgware, but she would not return.

There were those who doubted her decision, of course. Aunt Alberta had promptly driven down from Cambridge to give her parents a lecture about allowing her to “throw her life away.” But Lucy had never felt so at peace as when she had said “yes,” and this peace returned whenever she thought of what she was about to enter.

A nameless tune escaped her lips as she walked along the pavement. She did not notice for a few moments that it was an old ditty she had learned in Narnia, one that the fauns would sing to calm their children. The lines between the two worlds had blurred for Lucy; they could not return to Narnia, but it did not matter. She would still serve Aslan, though in a far different manner from any which she had ever imagined.

“I’m here,” came a voice from beside her, to her surprise. “Thought it’s about time you noticed.”

“Oh, Owen!” Lucy exclaimed. She smiled as she noticed how her friend had positioned himself between her and the curb. He would have been a fine knight of Narnia… ”I wasn’t expecting to see you. Isn’t it a bit early?”

“Early?” asked Owen, raising an eyebrow as he offered Lucy his arm. But he could not resist a tease. “Quite the thanks for saving you from wandering into the roadway, eh?”

“Oh, no, you took me by surprise! I thought you had classes till the evening,” explained Lucy apologetically.

“Then I’m afraid your memory is as faulty as your sister’s knowledge of her name,” teased Owen Leakey, as the two shared a laugh at the memory of their first meeting, standing at a newsstand with Susan Phyllis Pevensie in between. Owen had become a fast friend of the family since, especially of Lucy. Being a friend of a queen had certainly improved his self-confidence, though he did not know exactly how that had come about.

But even then, he was slightly nervous as the two strolled along pleasantly. Finally, he mustered enough courage to speak the words that had been on the tip of his tongue for days. “I was actually looking for you,” he admitted. “I wanted to ask you…well, you see…um, would you like to dine this Saturday, at The Catcher in the Rye? Just the two of us?”

Lucy sighed. She would have had to tell him sooner or later, and Owen had forced it to be sooner. “I take it you’re asking me to go on a date?”

Owen tried hard not to stammer. “I suppose so,” he said. “That is, yes. They have excellent roasts on weekends…”

The girl smiled and patted his linked arm. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, Owen, but I’m…I suppose you could say, taken. Forever.”

The young man’s face fell, but he quickly regained his composure and his manners. “Oh, I had no idea. My sincere congratulations!” He glanced at Lucy’s hand, and a slight furrow appeared on his forehead. “Who is it, may I ask?”

To his surprise, Lucy laughed. “Oh, you silly little owl, it’s not what you think. I’m becoming a nun!”

Owen did not react to the avian appellation; he had long before discovered that Lucy enjoyed affixing the names of animals to those whom she liked. And he was thoughtful enough now not to blurt out his initial reaction to the last sentence. “I suppose that fits you,” he finally said, slowly. “Is it the community in Edgware?”

“Yes, it is,” said Lucy, a slight smile returning to her face at the very thought of the place. “I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you before. I suppose I was a little afraid.”

Owen nodded, with realization and acceptance setting in. “I suppose I ought to have guessed, with how much time you spend there. I thought it was just because you enjoyed helping with their patients.”

“Oh, I do enjoy that, so much!” exclaimed Lucy. “It’s not only for that reason I’m joining, though. It’s hard to explain…but I want to serve God alone, and His people. When I’m there, helping the sisters, I feel that I’m at home.”

Owen finally smiled. Ever the gentleman, he could see how Lucy lightened whenever she talked of what would be her new life. “And I’m sure that they’ll love you. Lucy, I just wanted to thank you for all you’ve done for me. When I first met you, I was so lonely; I couldn’t even look in the mirror without hating myself. Lord, I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry thinking about some of the things I did to make myself feel better, such as that incident with Susan. You and your family took me in…please don’t laugh, but I almost feel like royalty when I’m with you.” Lucy smiled at this but said nothing, so after taking a breath Owen continued. “But more importantly, you made me realize that being popular isn’t as important as being myself, and I’ll always be grateful for this.”

The girl laughed. “Oh, Owen, you make it sound like we’ll never see each other again. You can still visit! But you do have to understand that my duties will come first.”

Owen removed his cap and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m sure you made the right decision,” he said quietly.

“The gentleman as always,” Lucy commented with a smile. “But you’ll come to understand. You’re becoming a man, Owen, and I’m sure you’ll be a good husband and father.”

“I thought maybe…I hoped I could be that, with you,” Owen admitted.

Lucy shook her head. “To tell the truth, so did I. But it only ran flesh-deep. What was in here, deep within, told me I had a different calling.”

Owen nodded. “You said I’ll come to understand. But I think I already do, and I…I love you all the more for that pure heart. You’ll always have a place in mine, no matter what happens.”

It was with a pang in her own heart that Lucy watched her dear friend walking away. Owen was now mature enough to find his own way through life, and he would indeed come to accept the separation. But no matter how long she had prepared for this moment, and no matter the joyful façade she had put on for his sake, it still hurt. A more selfish part of her longed to throw all her resolutions to the winds, to call out for him to return.

But she didn’t, and it was with the set face of The Valiant that she turned to face her destination. There it was, the Anglican Benedictine Community of Saint Mary at the Cross. The red brick buildings with the white windows could not be missed in the neat rows of little houses that surrounded it, and yet it did not seem to impose itself on the surroundings but to fit seamlessly, like a heart to a body or a smile to a face. Here the poor and the sick found succor, tended by the inhabitants of those walls.

“Ah, my dear Lucy!” exclaimed an affectionate voice as Lucy entered the foyer of the hospital. “I wish I could greet you properly…”

Lucy settled that by taking half of the tottering tower of towels that Mother Perpetua was carrying and following her as she bustled from one room to another. She could not help comparing the nun to Mrs. Beaver, with her energy and great heart.

“It’s so good of you to come and help again, but really, you should be spending this time with your family and friends,” Mother Perpetua said in between greetings to patients and directions to the other nuns. “There’ll be more than enough of this to satisfy you when you’ve joined us.”

Lucy shook her head. “But I never feel as peaceful as when I’m here, Reverend Mother. Beside, my family had a farewell party on Saturday, and then I had dinner with my closest friends again on Sunday. I can’t say farewell to people three times.”

“Every moment is precious, my child,” noted Mother Perpetua, “and someday having made those last farewells will give you comfort. But, my, my, James, your temperature’s gotten worse…”

“I’ll get some wet towels,” exclaimed Lucy, and the next half hour was spent in caring for the grateful old man. This was work in which Lucy had years of experience. And though her acquired skill would never match her cordial’s abilities, soon she and Mother Perpetua was able to sigh in relief that what had seemed to be a critical downturn had abated.

“Some very good friends will be leaving for foreign parts this weekend,” Lucy said when they finally had a quiet moment. “Can you pray that they have profitable travels?”

“Oh, I certainly will,” answered Mother Perpetua. “Where are they going, may I ask? Folk seem to be going everywhere these days, ever since the war. If only they could settle down and enjoy the peace…”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you, Reverend Mother,” apologised Lucy. “But their task is _very_ important.”

“Oh, you youngsters are so secretive towards us old folk,” chuckled Mother Perpetua. “But no matter.”

A melodious tolling floated in the evening air, emanating from the tower of the little chapel. It seemed to capture the spirit of this place and what it meant to Lucy- it was so peaceful, and yet represented a call to duty, a reminder that she would be but one of many in this place. She, who had been a queen, would be subject to that metal tone. She would be separated from her family and friends; she could not have Owen. But she had chosen.

“The bell for Vespers,” noted Mother Perpetua, taking off her apron and smoothing out the habit below. “You’re welcome to join us, of course.”

And so a few minutes later Lucy was seated in the nave of the chapel, watching and listening as the nuns chanted the ancient Hour of Vespers, the evening prayer marking the twilight of the day. Soon, she thought, she would be in the choir stalls with the others, joining their hymns…

Lucy had discovered Aslan in this world and she was sure that she had discovered what He wanted of her. She thought of the ermine, with its pure-white winter coat. There was an old legend that the creature would die rather than allow its whiteness to be soiled. So as pure as ermine would she remain, her life at the service of His people and at the calling of Him alone.

Pax. Peace. The motto of the nuns resonated for Lucy. The young woman scrupulously thought back to every time she believed she had failed Aslan. At the gorge on the way to find Prince Caspian, ought she to have gone to Him, regardless of what her family thought? How many times had she placed her own desires above what she knew to be right? But now she was at peace in this world.

Lucy Pevensie was finally willing to sacrifice all for Aslan. And He would grant her dearest wish, to be with Him forever.


	4. May 5, 1949

**88888**

**May 5, 1949**

**Experiment House, Cambridgeshire, England**

**88888**

Two children sat on a rock on the grey, heathery moor sloping down to meet the stone walls of Experiment House. Behind them, they could hear a seagull cawing as it swept over the East Anglian countryside.

“That bird's a sight too far west, wouldn’t you say, Pole?” asked the boy, casting a stone and watching as it bounced down the hillside.

“Oh, bother, Scrubb,” exclaimed the other. “Does how far lost it is matter? I want to rest.”

Eustace sighed and leaned back against the rock. A lone ray of sunlight peeping through the clouds made that small patch of moss and rock quite delightful in an otherwise dreary day.

“What do you think it will be like after we leave school?” Eustace turned to look at Jill and sighed. “Oh, you’re chewing heather again! And you said you wanted to rest?”

“It’s so good,” sighed Jill. “You do know they make tea from it?”

“I do,” grumbled Eustace. “Alberta used to make me drink it.”

“I don’t know what I’ll do,” said Jill suddenly, turning onto her side to face Eustace.

“Don’t know about what?” asked Eustace, puzzled. “Making me drink that nasty brew?”

Jill laughed. “No,” she said, tossing the heather at her friend. “It’s just that you become so cross whenever you talk of your parents and I wanted to bring your mind off it. I was answering your question.”

“Oh,” said Eustace, leaning back. “They’re not so bad, you know. I do love them, as much as I argue with them now.” After a moment’s pause, he sat up again. “Pole, I have no idea what I’ll do either. Don’t you ever get jealous seeing others so grown-up? Take my cousins, for example. Peter’s on his way to becoming a member of Parliament, and Edmund’s gone and become a war hero, as if he wasn’t one already. And what will we be?”

“My mum says I’ll be a good wife and mother,” said Jill quietly. She suddenly felt quite shy, with the awkwardness of a child emerging into adulthood.

“Can’t see that happening,” muttered Eustace.

“Your parents haven’t had..that talk with you?” asked Jill. The heather had become very interesting again.

Eustace shook his head, not entirely understanding. “Harold and Alberta say that marriage is outdated now. I’ve tried to show them using natural law that it isn’t, but they don’t believe in natural law either. Not that I know or care anything about marriage.”

“That’s it!” exclaimed Jill, almost forgetting what she had been going to say. “Why don’t you become a lawyer?”

“Say that again?” mumbled Eustace, who had drifted off into his own thoughts.

“I said,” exclaimed Jill, a little less crossly than she ought to have been, “You should be a lawyer.”

“Yes, so I have to read books for another six years,” complained Eustace. But the thought was becoming dangerously intriguing.

Jill felt like shaking her friend. “Oh, come off it, Scrubb!” she exclaimed. “I know as well as you how much you really enjoy learning. And you’d be perfect, too. The way you defended Spivvins when he went to you for help was like a regular barrister…”

“That would be like a solicitor,” said Eustace, in the lecturing tone into which he still occasionally relapsed. “A solicitor is the one who deals directly with a client.”

“Thank you, Scrubb, you proved my point very nicely.”

“You…you didn’t do that on purpose, did you?” exclaimed Eustace, turning rather red. Jill was preparing to run but relaxed as Eustace leaned back against the rock. “I suppose you’re right. But mind you, the next time you ask for a peppermint I’ll be horrid too and refuse.”

Jill sighed. Eustace knew all her weak spots, all too well. “I’m sorry, Scrubb. But I stand by my words. You’ll be a great…solicitor.”

“And you’ll be a great…” Eustace sat back up. “Why does it keep getting back to you being married? Isn’t that just a horrible thought?”

“Well, we’re getting to the age where we should be starting to think about it. It would be just lovely, but we can’t be sixteen forever. In fact, I even know several girls who were sixteen when they married, after the war.”

“You probably think it will be fun to be married, and argue all your life,” Eustace said. Unpleasant memories of Harold and Alberta ran through his mind.

“Well, isn’t that what friends like us do anyway?” asked Jill. Neither she nor Eustace thought too much of these words. “I do think it would be wonderful, to pledge myself to another till death, and receive his pledge of the same.”

“You’re thinking about your parents, aren’t you,” she added when Eustace did not reply. “It’s not always that way. I’m sorry, Scrubb.”

Eustace let out a sigh and tried to shut out the images of his parents quarreling. “It’s hard to imagine anything better when I’ve lived with…you know what, all my life.”

Jill had an idea. “Just imagine you were married to…um, let’s see…

“Edith Jackle? Adela Pennyfather?”

“Oh, no,” gasped Jill. “You have the most horrid thoughts! How about Eleanor Blakiston or…or myself…”

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Eustace admitted slowly. As a matter of fact, he was thinking about Eleanor Blakiston. The thought of being married to Jill was so strange that he quite shut it out of his mind.

“Well, then give it a chance, alright?” Jill asked as she reached out to gather her long-forgotten books. The solemn toll of the first bell drifted up the hill. “Promise?”

“I just need to think about it,” said Eustace. “I’m sure I’ll find someone decent eventually, given some time. How about you?”

“Oh, I’m sure I’ll find someone decent too,” Jill responded as they skipped down the hill hand-in-hand to catch supper, “eventually.”

That weekend, as their train rounded a turn sharply and he instinctively shielded Jill, Eustace knew.

**88888**

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Loopyloo2610 for the beta’ing.
> 
> I do not own the Chronicles of Narnia or any of the historical figures and events in this story.


End file.
